


Fantastic

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Kinks, M/M, Misunderstandings, the frailty of genius _ it needs an audience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8583763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: This is for C, because it's her birthday! Happy birthday, darling! xx





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyRedCrest (your_icequeen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_icequeen/gifts).



> This is for C, because it's her birthday! Happy birthday, darling! xx

John has gotten good at reigning in his exclamations of amazement at crime scenes. He has, as if in exchange, also become better at calling Sherlock out on his non-sense, though he tries not to do it in front of the clients as much. He knows that Sherlock is miffed about it, but while he is still amazed time and time again, over the years he has gotten to know Sherlock better than anyone else in his life, probably including himself, and he knows that while Sherlock basks in his compliments, he becomes reckless when he starts doing it. He shows off. He wants to do something even more amazing to get John to repeat his unconscious little remarks about how brilliant he finds him. He doesn’t know that John is ever more amazed when they are just sitting across from each other at the breakfast table and Sherlock manages five minutes of conversation that are not about severed body parts, the newest mystery or a detailed description of just how bored he is. Sherlock doesn’t know that John has spent an hour in the most uncomfortable position he has ever been in just so Sherlock could sleep against his shoulder after exhausting himself during a case simply because John was amazed by his trust. Sherlock doesn’t know that John finds it remarkable when the kitchen table is clean, when he bought milk, when he stacked the files and placed them in the niche between the couch and the window instead of leaving them scattered all over the coffee table and the carpet. 

But John doesn’t quite know how to praise him for that, because it seems silly, really, to praise him for something that anybody else would consider the baseline for any kind of co-habitation. But considering that it’s Sherlock, who couldn’t care less for order as long he finds things in his self-inflicted chaos, and as long as it is not about his own person, it is fantastic. 

More than once, John has opened his mouth just to shut it again when Sherlock looked back at him, clearly wondering what John would complain about next. Because he does complain, more than he praises Sherlock, even compared to the first year. And he knows that Sherlock is miffed about that as well, but since John accepts being called an idiot on a regular basis, Sherlock seems to have worked out that John needs an outlet for his annoyance, too. 

For more than a year now, John has lived in Baker Street again after the divorce. The first weeks were awful, both men tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. It had taken a complex case and a couple of glasses of wine on very little sleep that allowed them both to loosen up a bit and address the fact that they had both killed for each other and that they would both do it again. John barely remembers anything of that night, but he knows they made it home alright and that they woke up wrapped up in each other’s arms, both nauseous with drink and relief. 

After that, John had started praising him again and he had seen Sherlock flush with pleasure at it. An additional incentive had been the kisses he’d receive after they returned home and Sherlock very clearly felt that John deserved some of that pent up energy that vibrated through him after he solved a case. It wasn’t long until Sherlock’s appreciation kisses followed more immediately upon the footsteps of John’s compliments, and after he found himself at a crime scene with Sherlock’s hands in his trousers and his lips attached to his collar bone, moaning loudly, he knew they couldn’t continue as they were. 

Sherlock never commented on it verbally, but John could tell by the little moments of silence after a rush of deductions that he desperately wanted John to fill those gaps. In the end they came to an arrangement in which Sherlock was only allowed to kiss John when they were alone and the doors to the room in which they currently kissed were closed, and, if possible, locked. John still did not return to expressing his thoughts quite so openly again, and he tried to stop himself entirely when his comments on Sherlock’s brain were joined by comments on his body. 

Things has changed, obviously, after John had gotten to know Sherlock’s body more intimately. He had seen him naked dozens of times before that, because Sherlock really did not care about how his nakedness might affect people – including clients who had, on occasion, entered their flat in Baker Street only to be presented with a freshly showered consulting detective who toweled off his hair in the doorway while shouting instructions at John to take care of the clients until he was dressed. 

For a long time, John had felt detached from Sherlock’s nakedness, like he had in the army. But once he had started feeling overly protective of him, he had begun seeing him with different eyes entirely. After he had identified his protectiveness as love, he had gone through a phase in which he could not even look Sherlock in the eye and then he had … died. And John had dreamed of him every night, and not all dreams had been of the fall – he still called it the fall in his mind, refusing the notion that he had jumped, voluntarily. To save his life. Some nights he had woken up, his entire body aching for Sherlock. 

He had tried to draw him several times, and laughed at himself half way through, burning his attempts in the fireplace. Mary had been a welcome distraction. There was nothing frustrating about her. She was normal, sarcastic, yes, but not cynical like Sherlock. He had happily let himself fall in love with her, being appreciative of the normalcy that she offered, until it wasn’t enough, and until, a little later, it turned out that she was anything but normal. 

But now he was back where he belonged, a changed man, but still loyal to Sherlock. But also his lover. And his greatest critic. 

So it came as no surprise to John that when Sherlock managed to pull off a truly spectacular deduction and connected two very different crime syndicates with the same large-scale bank robbery and subsequent shootout, leading to the arrest of all of the two group’s London based members, and John stayed silent, Sherlock stopped bouncing with exhilaration and adrenaline and stood very still, waiting for John to say something, anything, to show his approval.

John bit his lip, knowing that he wouldn’t be kissed today. 

And Sherlock looked truly heartbroken for a moment.

Neither of them said a word on the way back, and John felt irritated by Sherlock’s irritation. He shouldn’t depend on his praise, on his approval. He did the work because that was who he was. He should be able to feel proud of himself without John’s verbal recognition of his brilliance. 

Sherlock made tea but did not bring it into the sitting room, leaving John to get his own cup. When he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock lay belly down on the couch, his face hidden from John. John knew better than to ask.

He sat down in his chair, slowly sipping his tea, trying to ignore the guilt that slowly wrapped itself around the edges of his consciousness. He watched Sherlock, wanting to get up, to pet his hair, to kiss the nape of his neck, to run his hands down from his shoulder blades to the indecent dip of the small of his back and further down, feeling him tense when his hands squeezed, just lightly, but enough to remind Sherlock that he was borderline obsessed with his arse, and to cause him to recall the countless moments of worship which John had enjoyed just as much as Sherlock had. 

Just then Sherlock reached out, shifting the weight and posture of his body. John knew that it was how bodies worked, god damnit, he knew every bone and sinew of the human body by heart, but something told him that Sherlock was teasing him. That he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Curvy motherfucker,” he grinned into his teacup, despite himself, watching Sherlock stop mid-movement. 

“What was that?” Sherlock asked after a pause, turning his head to glare at him. 

John considered lying, but he knew he had to tread carefully at the moment, so he went for the truth. “You heard me.”

“I’ll take the first, but the second part is factually inaccurate. I am also severely disappointed in your use of such words in our household. That’s low, even for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” John rolled his eyes but went back to staring at Sherlock’s back which was now curved even more dramatically. 

More silence. 

“The first part is decidedly true, though,” John added when Sherlock neither moved nor looked away.

“John, most humans are. It would be very strange if it were otherwise.”

“Nobody has your arse, though,” John pointed out, raising his cup as if to congratulate him on it. 

Sherlock squinted at him as if he was trying to figure out what to do with John’s words and his attempt at conversation. John let his eyes roam over his back again and down further to his feet, which were pressing against the armrest of the sofa as if Sherlock was about to jump up. Maybe he was. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm.”

“You do know that you were brilliant today, right?”

Sherlock sighed and turned on his back, leaving John to marvel at the almost feminine dip of his waist above his hip, the edge of his hipbone and his pelvic muscle still hidden under his shirt and his belted trousers. John regretted now not praising him, though it seemed that Sherlock was at least open to conversation. 

“Are you saying this to get me into bed?”

It had been more than a week since they had had sex. 

“Yes,” he admitted, knowing that Sherlock already knew the truth. He was in control now, or had been, really, since they had come home. Even leaving the tea had been foreplay of some sort. 

“You need to do better than that,” Sherlock’s face was almost blank but John could spot the spark of interest that flashed up in his eyes from a mile away. 

“You behaved well,” John tried, watching Sherlock consider him carefully. No answer meant an invitation to continue. 

“And you managed to do what ten especially assigned Yarders couldn’t do, including Lestrade, Dimmock and the superintendent.”

Sherlock allowed his expression to soften into a small smile. 

“And you probably prevented a lot of murders and injuries and drug deaths and …”

“Well, yes, not important.”

John sighed. It was moments like this which reminded him that he would never see the world like Sherlock saw it.

“And you looked very, _very_ attractive today.”

Sherlock’s smile disappeared. “John!”

“What? I’m just saying.”

“I always look attractive to you. Sentiment. Go on.”

John put down his tea cup and shook his head. “You’re a cock.”

“Wrong, again. I have one, certainly, but …”

“See, this is the problem. I am tired of trying to figure out what I have to say to make you react…”

“React like you want me to? Expect me to?”

“Both.”

“You know exactly what to say.”

“And if I don’t you withhold affection?”

Sherlock’s frown was real. John felt his skin prickle.

“You were the one who withheld affection.”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “You did not even attempt to kiss me. Or do any of the things you usually do.”

“We talked about this.”

“You broke protocol at the crime scene, as you have decided you would, but in the cab? When we got home. Nothing.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“In the cab, you usually touch me. Not indecently, I know you are above that, but you do touch me. And usually you open the door, both to the cab and the flat. In the beginning it was an excuse to get close while making it look incidental. Oh, don’t look so surprised. I know, because it’s what I did all the time before… well. But you started touching me when I passed you and you did not even try today.”

John frowned at him, trying to understand what he was saying. “So you were waiting for me to touch you?”

“Obviously. I always am.”

“And you weren’t upset because I did not tell you how fantastic you were, solving the case?”

“Well, you haven't told me that for a while now.”

“Why were you upset, then?” 

John had stood up, wanting to bridge the distance between them, hoping to understand him better that way. 

“Because you chose not to, today, even though you wanted to.”

John nodded. “I wanted to see how you’d react. Regretting that now, obviously.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. 

“You fucker!” John barked out. “You knew!”

“Well, …”

“Thanks for making me feel like shit just now.”

“Likewise.” Sherlock said, no sign of mirth on his features now.

“I’m sorry,” John sat down on the coffee table, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. Then he remembered that Sherlock already had. “Oh, you!” he reached out and tugged the shirt out of Sherlock’s belt. 

Sherlock lifted his hip to make it easier for John, but he did not move properly to help him. John, knowing that he still held a minimum of power, slipped a hand into Sherlock’s trousers and pushed, squeezing a handful of arse. Sherlock grunted. 

“Jupp. Still a curvy motherfucker,” John chuckled when Sherlock pushed back against his hand, contorting his body almost indecently. 

“Stop saying that, John!”

John licked his lips and undid Sherlock's trousers while pushing his shirt up towards his chest, falling to his knees to be able to lick and kiss his stomach. Sherlock squirmed. 

“Yes,” Sherlock urged him on when his hand moved from his arse to squeeze his erection. “Your mouth, please!”

John stopped for a moment to look at him, marveling at the change that had come over him since he had admitted that this was all he had wanted in the first place. 

He nodded and undid his trousers properly, pushing them and Sherlock’s underwear out of the way. Sherlock hissed when John took him into his hand and guided him between his lips. 

“Gorgeous,” he heard the whisper escape him but chose to ignore it. It was easier when Sherlock was not reminded of those times he was not in control; especially not while it was exactly what was happening at the moment. 

John tried to translate all those words that would have escaped him had he not stopped himself into his touch and his movement. He made love to him as best he could with his hands, his mouth and his mind and he found himself breathless when Sherlock’s hand settled against his chin, trembling as he came. 

“Please come to bed with me,” he asked after Sherlock had calmed down again.

“Are you going to say vulgar things?” Sherlock asked, rubbing the tip of his nose with his index finger, something John did his best not to address even though it made him smile, and Sherlock managed a frown. 

“I’m going to do vulgar things,” John promised and rose, feeling dizzy for a moment. 

Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing to John when he undressed entirely and lay, arse up, down on the bed, waiting for John’s slick fingers to prepare him. It took John all he had not to chant out all the suppressed compliments he had collected in the back of his mind all day, but when Sherlock arched his back, begging John to press him against the bed by the small of his back, he couldn’t help himself and he leaned down, kissing his shoulder blades, whispering an endearment with every breath. 

He knew he should find it disturbing to consider the many ways his partner was brilliant at catching murderers and all kinds of criminals, but in the end all that really mattered was the smile on Sherlock’s face as he contorted his body again to be able to kiss him, finally kiss him, for the first time that evening. 

John shuddered when Sherlock began pushing back, taking over, allowing him to watch him move while John simply held on, finally letting his body take over. 

He cried out when he came, collapsing on Sherlock’s back, gasping through aftershocks for a while before he rolled off him and pulled him into his arms. “Fantastic, that’s what you are.”

Sherlock smiled happily. “Much better,” he noted with a chuckle and John slapped his arse.

“I’ll use that as a code word for curvy motherfucker from now on, just so you know.”

Sherlock forgot John’s promise until a couple of days later when he was bent over a corpse, shooting off deductions as he went along and John stood right behind him, a happy grin on his face. “Fantastic!”

This time, the cabbie threw them out before they had reached home and John found that while Sherlock still craved his approval, he wasn’t only showing off his deduction skills now, but, much to John’s amusement and Lestrade infinite confusion, he began throwing poses at crime scenes.


End file.
